


Stewing

by TriDom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, It's fucked up, M/M, Not Tagging it for anything else, THESE ARE YOUR WARNINGS, addict!Stiles, drug dealer!chris, drug dealer!peter, read with caution, unhealthy relationship, you did it to yourself, you have no one else to blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 14:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: When Chris and Peter find out that Stiles has been unfaithful, they aren't mad. They're just disappointed.





	Stewing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triscuits (TriscuitsandSoup)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/gifts).



> Repost and mild edit of an old story at the request of TriscuitsandSoup. 
> 
> **Reader, this fic is fucked up. If you're looking for fluff, idk why the fuck you're on my page honestly. But this is most certainly not the fic for you. :) **

Stiles walked out of Lahey’s house, pushing the roll of dollar bills into pocket. Across the street, two dogs barked against a chain-link and t-post fence. He could hear their owner screaming at them through the thin walls to shut up as he climbed into his Jeep.

He lifted up to dig his phone from his back pocket after he turned the key and the motor shuddered. Jordan should be off work, but still nothing. He clicked the screen locked and put the Jeep into drive.

He drove through the shittier areas of the town he grew up in until he came to the main street that wasn’t much better, turning down it and starting to leave town before he saw his dad, walking down the sidewalk from the police station, probably going to the diner or his cruiser since he was on night shift.

He reached into his cup holder and threw a small bag of heroin into the center console. He pulled to the curb and cranked down his window. His dad came over and leaned on his door, folding his arms on the ledge.

“Where are you headed?”

“Out to the house,” Stiles said, checking his phone again. It was on his messages with Jordan from earlier that morning. When he looked up, his dad was frowning, looking at his phone.

“Kid, you need to keep your nose clean.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Not worried for you,” John said. “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t know what tree he's barking up.”

Stiles flicked up through his phone watching his and Jordan’s conversations scroll passed.

“They're not as scary as everyone thinks they are." 

“When everyone is saying something, you should probably listen." 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, not you I’m particularly worried about,” John said.

Stiles’s gut rolled as he tossed his phone into his cup holder. “They don’t know anything about it.”

“Would you really put it past them?" 

Stiles frowned, staring out of the windshield at the building that used to be the post office. A window was boarded over. The door had been kicked in a few weeks ago. They still needed to put plywood over it. After a few seconds, John patted the inside of his door.

“Tell Peter his shit is coming in Sunday,” John said, leaning back.

“Alright,” Stiles said, starting to put the Jeep into gear.

“Just think about it,” John said. “They’ve got their teeth set, Stiles. They won’t let go easily.”

“I don’t know if I want them too.”

“You need to decide. The in-between is what is going to get people hurt.”

“They’ve got their bluff in on you.”

John stared at him for a moment, before he shook his head. “I hope so.” Then he reached through the window and squeezed his shoulder before he stepped back onto the sidewalk. “We’ll get breakfast Sunday, alright?”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Love you.”

“Yeah, you too, be safe.”

Stiles nodded before he cranked up his window and turned his heater higher.

 

 

He lived with Peter and Chris five miles outside of town. Their driveway looked like a cattletrail, but it was meant to. There were also cameras hidden in the trees that bordered the road, constantly filming.

When he pulled up to the house, Stiles parked near Peter’s SUV. He pulled his deputy jacket closer around his shoulders and pulled out his phone again, checked it and put it away as he walked up the front steps and walked inside.

Chris’s dog, McAlester, came up to him immediately, licking his hands and jumping on his legs.

Friday was the day the cleaning people came. The house was spotless, the boots and shoes by the front door tucked away inside of the basket, the rugs vacuumed of dog hair and dead grass tracked in from the yards. Stiles took off his on duty coat and it over the couch before stripping out of his button up.

He went to the laundry room and threw his clothes in the basket before he pulled on a t-shirt and jeans from the folded piles, near almost identical ones of Chris’s and Peter’s. Chris’s were mostly t-shirts with the chemical plant logo he was a foreman of.

In the kitchen he found a few bags of coke. He poured out a small amount and lined it up on the granite, and inhaled all of it. He held one nostril closed and snorted again as his phone vibrated in his hand.

Something in his shoulders loosened before he saw it was only Chris, telling him to come down to the fire pit. Stiles put down his phone and poured another line, taking his time with it, waiting for his nose to not burn so badly before he leaned over and did it again.

 

 

 

It was getting dark when Stiles left the back door, going down the trail to the river behind the house. McAlester trotted in front of him, the trees casting shadows on his brown and black tiger striped fur. When Stiles breathed warm clouds puffed in front of him, uneven as the dirt path he walked on. He pulled out his phone and squinted against the red light of the sunset dappling his screen.

His home screen was empty, the clock staring back at him blankly. He flipped it on vibrate and pushed it into the pocket of his jacket.

He sniffed against the cold and the sting of the gritted particles like glass still burning the tender insides of his nose. His footsteps felt melodic with the heat rising up through his skin, even when he could feel his fingers freezing at the tips, the edges of his ears, and the end of his nose all burning against the little bit of wind.

Chris laughing reached him before he broke through the line of trees. Chris’s truck was parked to the side of the clearing they fished in, they drank in, and partied in. In the high weeds beer bottles and cans caught the dying light.

“Hey,” Chris said. He was still in his work clothes, t-shirt, jeans, and his steel toed boots.

“Hey,” Stiles said, hugging him before doing the same to Peter. “I picked up the money from Isaac.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, hugging him before kissing him. His lips already felt wet and warm, like he had been kissing Chris before. Stiles licked into the taste of his mouth with the warmth and fogginess settling into his limbs. Peter slid his fingers through the back of his hair before he squeezed just enough to sting before he squeezed the back of his neck and let go.  

“How was work?” Peter asked.

“Good,” he said, stepping back, looking at the fifty-gallon metal barrel beneath the tree they hung deer from when they cleaned them. “Did you hunt today?”

“You know nothing’s in season,” Chris said.

“What would your father say?” Peter asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Stiles laughed slightly, looking for the carcass. There was still gore on the hook chain. The branch it laid over was scarred from decades of the grating of steel links against its bark. There was a large spot of dark soil beneath it, coloring the grass. With so little light left, it looked like oil.

He heard the strike of a lighter before he smelled the skunkiness of weed. Peter drew him against his side and Stiles swayed against him, pressing his lower face against his shoulder. Blood dripped from the lowered tailgate of the truck behind Peter. It pooled in the creases of metal and stained the grass beneath. McAlester licked the puddles as more dripped on his dark head.

Peter bumped the side of his cheek and Stiles turned right before Peter pushed against his mouth. Stiles opened, smelling the smoke before he felt the warmth pushing down his throat and into his lungs.

“You already got into my new load,” Peter said, looking down at him where Stiles was slumped on his shoulder.

Stiles blew out the weed smoke. “I had to make sure it was good.”

Peter smiled and Chris did a few feet behind him, the end of his one-hitter glowing orange. Then he wondered how many sets of lungs the smoke he had just inhaled had been through. Chris’s fingers were black with blood. He even had a smear beneath his eye, almost covered by the dark shadow thrown by his hat.

Then he cussed, digging in his coat pocket.

“Going to throw this fucking phone in the river with the rest him,” Chris said.

Stiles watched Chris drag his thumb over the phone screen. It was a new phone, a silver frame, not the few generations old iPhone he normally carried. Then the screen glowed unlocked and his stomach dropped as Peter’s arm tightened around his neck.

“I think we should talk,” Peter said.

“I’d say so. Some of these texts are pretty slutty,” Chris said, flipping over the home page of Jordan’s phone and pulling up his texts.

Stiles’s tongue felt stupid as Chris came closer, angling the phone so he could see. There was blood on the screen. He watched his and Jordan’s conversations over the last two months scroll passed the screen. He stopped on a picture and pulled it up so Stiles’s own dick filled the screen with dribbles of cum on his stomach.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Chris asked.

They were both staring at him. Different shades of blue eyes. Peter had blood in his hair.

Stiles jerked away as his stomach turned. He vomited on the bank. It ran into the water and the little fish pecked it from the surface.

“You forced our hands, Stiles. I don’t know what else you expected,” Chris said.

“Don’t be overly dramatic, Love,” Peter said, running his fingers through the back of his hair. “We aren’t angry. Just disappointed.”

There was a hollow clang then the barrel hit its side, smashing into the back of his leg. He dragged himself up by Peter’s arm, burying his face against his flannel as Chris started to undo the clasps of the ring holding on the top.

It smelled like deer left to rot with vinegar and bleach. Peter turned him away from his body, but kept his arms around him, keeping him up as Stiles vomited again, and Chris emptied the barrel in the river with thick gelatinous splats.


End file.
